


Summerday

by GingerBreton



Series: The Templar and The Thief [2]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: Based on a Tumblr Post, Dragon Age AU, F/M, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, References to Depression, Romance, Templar AU, Templar Alistair, Templars (Dragon Age), Tumblr Prompt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-22
Updated: 2019-01-22
Packaged: 2019-10-14 16:55:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,159
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17512391
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GingerBreton/pseuds/GingerBreton
Summary: Back to the Templar AU where Alistair completed his Templar training, being assigned to the Denerim Chantry, and Ysabelle continued to live in Denerim.Following their initial meeting, Ysabelle and Alistair are reunited for a day together when Alistair sneaks away from Chantry life for the day.One shot fluff prompt for tumblr - 'Holds the other’s hand when they think the other won’t notice'





	Summerday

It was a mild late spring morning, the scent of honeysuckle and sweetpeas from the gardens starting to hang heavily in the air. The delights of the season steadily readying itself for summer were entirely lost on the young templar who stood like a statue by Denerim’s Chantry doors. Though a casual observer would never notice, it had been the same man stood there every day for the last month, through the unseasonably hot days of early Cloudreach, and the torrential rains that had followed. 

Ever since that first meeting Alistair couldn’t help but let his eyes search the throng of people passing by for her. Every flash of red hair moving amongst the market-goers beyond the walls had brought a flutter to his heart, but it had never been her. Hope had filled his heart for the first few weeks, as he rolled her name on his tongue, and practiced conversations in his head, but she hadn’t returned. 

After a month the butterflies in his stomach had fallen, their wings torn from them, leaving nothing but the occasional uncomfortable squirming sensation as self-doubt wracked his thoughts on the long solitary days of door duty. It was a duty he’d foolishly volunteered for when he thought he would see her again, and now every day he stood there he felt more like the idiot that people took him for. He hated them for it. Hated that they were too stupid to see past the face value of his words, never understanding what they masked. Hated that because he chose humour over arrogance, he had been branded the fool within the ranks for all eternity. Once he had resented them, but now he honestly wondered if they were right. Yet he could not bring himself to hate her. He just felt a sinking disappointment in himself. How could he have been foolish enough to think she was doing anything other than having some fun. 

_Idiot. She’d never be interested in you_ , the little voice in the back of his mind regularly mocked him. _No woman is going to risk an association with you. Especially not her. You aren't worth that. You belong to the Chantry. Broken. And pious. And alone._

He would wake in the night, heartbroken in the knowledge that his dreams of never being sent to the monastery hadn’t been real. He’d find himself drawn into a vortex of thoughts of what could have been, dragging him down into a sea of ‘ifs’ and drowning him in ‘maybes’. On those nights he fought back the burning tears that threatened to overwhelm him with nothing but the rage and frustration at a life he could not change. 

At the edge of his vision he could see Mother Perpetua ministering with one of the initiates. Even now, almost an entire month later, her watchful eyes glowered at him from the edge of the market, making sure he didn’t avail himself of any opportunity to misbehave. A pointless endeavour, he mused, as the flicker of a smirk touched his lips below his helmet at the thought of her wasted observation. The last vestiges of rebellion had been seeping away with the cold sweats that woke him in the night. He wasn't going anywhere. 

Today was the last day of his volunteered time guarding the main doors. Cloudreach was nearing an end, the Chantry a hive of activity in preparation for Summerday. People buzzed to and fro, the courtyard busier than he had seen it in months. He stood as straight as he could muster, his boredom at the monotony of Chantry life clouding an otherwise clear day, as he counted down the hours until his shift was over. 

“Hello, Alistair.”

He nearly jumped out of his skin. The out-of-breath whisper came from behind him, just around the corner of the main Chantry building, mere inches to his side. The breathing was shaky, heavy breaths from exertion suppressed in the name of stealth. 

“Ys—Ysabelle?” Disbelief tripped his words. _Very smooth, Alistair. You’ve spent a month practicing her name and you can’t even get it out as a whole word._ He attempted to turn his head to catch a glimpse of her. 

“Don’t look!” she protested, voice hushed so as to not draw attention. “Do you have any idea how hard it’s been for me to get in here? I swear Mother Perpetua has used the whole _‘magic is meant to serve man’_ business to put up a barrier spell specifically designed to keep me out!”

He could hear the frustration in her voice, layered behind the humour, masked from public view for its unsavoury nature. A tactic all too familiar to him. The realisation paled next to the knowledge that she was actually here. He allowed a true smile to spread across his lips within the safe privacy of his helmet. A month of disappointments had built walls around his heart, but those few words were already eroding them. The weight began to lift. 

A thought struck him. 

“Wait a second. How could you possibly have known I was… well, me? We all look the same in this armour?”

“You fidget.” 

“I do not! Anyway, how could you possibly see that?”

She laughed, causing the western wall of his defences to collapse. How easily they were falling. Her outburst of merriment was just loud enough to draw the attention of Mother Perpetua, whose gaze snapped round to Alistair’s post. He felt a swift rush of movement behind him. Ysabelle had slid into the spot directly to his back. They stood back-to-back, her body pressed against him, trying to suppress her giggles as she used his massive armour as a shield from the eagle-eyed glare of the priestess. 

“Why is it that when I’m near you, I feel like I’m just moments away from getting in serious trouble?” he mused once the Mother’s gaze had returned to her flock.

“You know, I had to climb over a lot of roofs to get in here. It was impressive, death defying even. But I could leave if you’d prefer…?” she teased. He could feel her beginning to move away. 

He instinctively reached out, his hand momentarily catching hers. There went another wall falling to effortless bombardment. He could see her now, the wicked playful looks she had given him at their first meeting, giving way to gentle eyes and a soft smile. He didn’t mean to plead, or at least he didn’t intend it to sound so obvious, but a hint of desperation tinged his words, “Please don’t go.”

“I think I’ll have to. I hadn’t thought Perpetua would still be keeping such a watch on you. And what did you just tell me about getting you into serious trouble?”

He reached up instinctively to ruffle his hair, like he always did when he felt awkward, completely forgetting about his helmet and making a loud clang. Her soft smile broke into a broad grin again, her eyes bright. 

“Summerday.” 

Despite his cumbersome helmet, her gaze had drawn him in, demolishing yet another of his defenses. He was so distracted that it took him a moment to realise she’d spoken at all. 

“What??”

“What are you doing on Summerday?”

“Well it’s kind of a big deal for the Chantry, so more likely that not, I’ll be guarding something.”

“Tell them you’re sick.”

“Wha—I couldn’t poss—” 

“Tell them you’re sick and meet me at the Gnawed Noble at 10.” 

With that she was gone. Darting back down the side of the Chantry, making it up one of the outbuildings with surprising ease, before disappearing onto the rooftops in a flurry of skirts. It was only when his heartbeat steadied that the thought dawned him, _how in the void am I going to manage this?_

—————-

Summerday dawned, warm and inviting like its name suggested. A day full of possibilities. A chance to live like someone else if only for a little while. He didn't know if it was the prospect of seeing Ysabelle again after a month of abandonment, an act for which she'd not entirely earned forgiveness, or whether it was the prospect of freedom if only for a day that had kept him awake for most of the night. 

Alistair has been on his very best behaviour in the preceding days. Obedient and helpful, just as the Revered Mother wished, but not suspiciously so. He had been careful of that. When the eve of Summerday came around, Alistair laid it on thick. After dinner his poor stomach has become _unbearable_ , but he had made a show of soldiering on through it, _I don’t want to let anyone down_ , then bending double in pain until his superiors sent him off to bed. 

Come the morning all his fellow Templars were out before dawn. He made sure to grunt his discomfort if anyone asked after his well-being. It was nearly nine when Esme, an initiate, finally checked in on him on behalf of the Revered Mother. The flush of panic that he might be late was enough to convince her of a fever. It took another quarter of an hour to convince the woman that he didn’t require a healer, and another ten to get her to leave. She had always been attentive to Alistair, kind and sweet, but he’d always been able to recognise her disapproval at his flights of humour and rebellion, even when they were minor. Maybe he’d have looked at her differently with time, before he knew what a connection with another person actually felt like. Before a whirlwind of chaotic energy had turned him upside down in just a few stolen moments together. But now, she showed him supposed flaws like a mirror, and he already had enough people in his life to do that. 

As soon as he was sure she’d gone, he dragged on a shirt and pulled on his breeches so swiftly that he trapped his foot and fell face first onto the stone floor of the barracks. _What a fine state to be found in,_ he reflected as he scrambled to his feet, _male presenting arse_. It was just a quick dash through the kitchens to freedom. He scuttled through the hot room, ducking to avoid bunches to dried herbs that hung at various points from the arched ceiling. Pressing a finger to his lips as he hurried past the cook, a kindly woman with a soft spot for him and a better idea of what was going on within the barracks walls than most would give her credit for, who rolled her eyes as she gave her head a gentle shake. 

Fresh air filled his lungs, as fresh as Denerim’s city centre ever produced at any rate, and with no armour to weigh him down the feeling was absolute bliss. He crept through the kitchen gardens, past the vegetable plot where sweetpeas twined their way up pea canes, and made his way to the seldom used gardener’s side gate. He stopped only to double back momentarily when an idea rooted itself in his mind. 

\---------------------------

The air in the Gnawed Noble was heavy with the contrasting odours of sweet tobacco smoke and bitter ale. The tavern was crowded with visitors come to the city, the main bar loud with talk of the celebrations. It was standing room only as large groups filled every available space. Alistair picked his way across the horribly sticky floor, slick with the remains of spilled beer, attempting to gently push his way through the throng to get to the bar. His eyes searched the crowd and eventually settled on the figure of Ysabelle. She was leaning over the bar, pushing a package toward the burly moustached barman, who grunted an acknowledgment and handed her some coin. Under ordinary circumstances the exchange may have concerned him a little, but today wasn't a day for such worries. Today was an adventure. 

She turned and caught sight of him, his head bobbing above the press of people. Smiling, she waved across the crowd, standing on tiptoes to gesture towards the door. 

It was a relief to be back outside away from the cloying heat of the tavern. Seconds after his emergence Ysabelle appeared, obviously having had a smoother journey through the throng. She tucked a small coin pouch down her dress as she emerged. 

“Have you never heard of pockets?” he quipped, raising an eyebrow at her lazy shrug. 

“It's far less likely to get stolen from there.” 

“Who in Thedas is going to try and steal it from there?” He gave her an incredulous look. 

“How long have you been in Denerim exactly?”

“Alright, fair point.”

They looked at each other from opposite sides of the doorway in sudden awkward silence. A month of waiting and hoping for this, and she was as speechless as him, biting her bottom lip as she got her first proper look at him in civilian clothing. 

“You look good out of your armour,” she began before her eyes widened in realisation of what she'd inadvertently said. “Oh, shit. I mean….shit!” 

Ordinarily this would have sent him into a fit of coughs and blushes, but the now beetroot red blush swallowing her face and the wildly embarrassed look in her eyes had reduced him to raucous laughter. She completely shielded her face with her hands in an attempt to hide the blush as giggles consumed her. They made for a ridiculous sight, and even after Alistair had managed to control his laughter down to a chuckle, Ysabelle didn’t stop giggling. She was only silenced when he could no longer fight the urge to reach and touch her cheek. There she was, right in front of him, looking up at him with those big green eyes, a half-smile toying at her lips. Maker, she was lovely. Was she always so small? And beautiful. Was she always this beautiful? _All you have to do is kiss her... Now._ She had tipped her head to one side, regarding him with quizzical amusement. He’d obviously been staring. _It’s now or never._ He steeled himself, swallowing hard in an attempt to steady his nerves as he reached out again to cup her cheek.

“Excuse me!” 

A drunken, balding man came staggering out of the tavern nearly knocking them asunder like skittles, before promptly vomiting into a drainage channel just beyond Alistair. Alistair shook his head. _That’ll be never then._ The moment had been lost, but the laughter was back in her eyes. Evidently this was not an uncommon sight around the taverns. 

“Come on. We should at least get a look around while Denerim is your oyster,” she smiled, linking an arm through his and steering him back towards the marketplace. 

“As my trusty guide to life outside the Chantry walls, what would you suggest we do first?” he teased, allowing himself to be directed toward the crowd as he enjoyed the feel of her hand resting on his forearm. 

_I wonder what we look like? Like any young couple, maybe? Not escapees hiding in plain sight from the eye of the Chantry, surely. Just two people enjoying themselves on a day of celebration. He smiled to himself. Maybe for today we can be._

\---

All the market stalls had been pushed to the edge of the square to make way for the procession to the Chantry that would take place at noon. Trade was still bustling, if anything it was busier than usual. The square was filled with travelers who had come from across the surrounding region to join in the celebration, and with pious parents who looked forward to seeing their children’s spiritual progression into adulthood. 

The crowds were a sea of white clothing or, at the most, pale pastel spring colours. Alistair didn’t stand out too badly with his brown leather breeches and his off white shirt, but Ysabelle shone like a beacon weaving through the masses. Her dress was the blue of bluebells, not the fashionable shy blue of forget-me-nots. The colour made all the more vibrant when contrasted with her vivid red hair which was tied up in a loose knot, escaped strands falling around her face. The occasional looks of disapproval she drew did nothing but broaden her smile, and his too, for that matter. She was not one to conform. It was so refreshing to see after years enduring the homogeny of the chantry. 

After perusing the stalls for a while they settled by the dwarven merchant’s stall to watch the procession pass through the centre of the square. Dozens of boys and girls clad in pure white had nervously made their way through the streets of Denerim, and now through the market square, their way lined by proud parents, their number flanked by Chantry Sisters and Templars dressed in ceremonial armour. It was an impressive sight to behold. 

Ysabelle stood just ahead of him, on tiptoes again to try to see over the crowd. Her face rapt as she people watched. Her hand just inches from his. He could just take it. She was so engaged in the scene in front of them that she might never notice. He reached out tentatively, hesitantly weaving his fingers through hers as slowly as he could manage until her hand was wholly encased in his. 

He thought he’d gotten away with it, up until the point where her fingers closed around his in return. He froze, half expecting her to pull away, but instead she lifted his captured hand to her lips and absentmindedly kissed his knuckles as she continued to watch the crowd. 

The casual, loving gesture was unlike anything he’d experienced, and he couldn’t wipe the silly grin from his face as he watched her. For once Alistair didn’t feel the need to fill the silence, his heart rate soothed as he caught the edge of her smile while she watched the scene around them. _I don't know what I did to deserve this,_ he pondered contentedly, _but I am a lucky man._

His reverie was disturbed by a waving figure who stood a way off in the crowd. Panic initially flooded his system at the thought he might have been recognised. He wasn’t ready to go back yet. If he was honest, he didn’t ever want to go back. 

As it turned out, the panic was needless. Ysabelle raised her hand to wave in return, smiling as she did so, her other hand never leaving his. The tall strawberry-blond man beamed back at her and looked as though he was going to make his way toward them until a hand gently squeezed his shoulder. A small dark-haired, heavily pregnant woman stood at his side, a young boy supported in her other arm, clinging tightly to her neck. The man bent down to allow her to whisper in his ear. The pair whispered for a moment, all the while glancing conspiratorially at the young couple. Alistair could see Ysabelle’s cheeks turning crimson, exasperation settling on her features. 

“That's my cousin, Levi, and his wife Kelsie,” she sighed, as Kelsie led Levi away through the crowd. Her eyebrows waggled emphatically at Ysabelle the whole time, as gaze flicked between her and Alistair. “I apologise. They’re dead canny but ridiculously embarrassing. I'd deny knowing them but with that obscene amount of eyebrow wiggling, I don't think you'd believe me…”

“I thought we'd been rumbled for a minute there,” he laughed, giving her hand a little squeeze. 

“Oh, we were. I'll never hear the end of this!”

Remembering what he had collected from the kitchen garden earlier that day, Alistair reached into the pocket where he had stowed the gift upon entering the Gnawed Noble. He was disappointed to note that they weren’t as pristine as when he cut them, but they had held up surprisingly well considering. He led her away from the crowded marketplace and round towards the Wonders of Thedas. A quiet spot away from the chaos of celebration, where he hoped he could think straight. 

“Here, look at these…” Presenting a small, slightly battered bunch of sweetpeas, with a bashful smile. 

“Standard Templar issue I take it,” she quipped, leaning forward to breathe deep the heady floral aroma. 

“But of course. It wouldn’t do to have one’s toy soldiers smelling less than immaculate now would it. Speaking of which, I had best put these away for safekeeping.” He couldn’t help but beam at her indignant pout as he moved the flowers out of her reach. “Oh, did you think these were for you?” 

The flowers now out of her reach, Ysabelle changed tactics. Standing right up on tiptoes she pressed a soft kiss to his cheek, the momentary distraction allowing her to slip the posy from his grasp. She turned her back to him, playfully guarding the flowers as she enjoyed their rich scent. 

“I picked them in the Chantry gardens.” Leaning down, he wrapped his arms around her waist, pressing his cheek against hers. It felt easier to speak the words when he couldn’t see her reaction. “I thought how could something so sweet and beautiful grow in such a miserable place.” 

“Picking flowers from the Maker’s gardens, Ser Alistair? I’m shocked!” He could feel her smile against his cheek.

“It’s true. You’re going to get me smited… smote…?” His brow knotted.

“...smitten?” Ysabelle suggested coyly. 

Her tone was light but he could sense that wicked smile had come back to her, just for a moment. He could feel the blush rising in his cheeks, hot enough that he was sure she’d feel it too. She’d thrown him right off track. The gentle nudge of her nose as she twisted her head to kiss the edge of his lips wasn’t helping his concentration either. 

“Ysabelle…”

“Izzy,” she purred, another kiss pushing the blush up to his ears.

“Izzy, I’m trying to say nice things and you are a distraction.” It took every ounce on his willpower to focus on what he wanted to say. “I thought maybe I could tell you what a rare and wonderful thing you are to fin--”

She twisted in his arms, cutting him off as she pressed her lips to his and wound her arms around his neck. Wrapping his arms tightly around her waist again he lifted her off the ground, hearing a gratifying giggle as her feet swung nearly a foot off the floor. To be able to hold her so close felt like heaven, no armour shell to block her warmth. He felt like an entirely different man to the one who’d held her just a month before. 

Izzy was the first to break away from the kiss. Alistair could have kissed her forever if she’d let him. She rested her forehead against his, her eyes still closed and a contented smile gracing her features, until he saw that wicked smile creep back for a moment. 

“So, are we married now?” She looked down at him from her elevated position in his arms, desperately trying to keep her face straight. It wasn’t working. 

“Ha! You won’t land me that easily, woman!” Squeezing her a little tighter, so that the last of her serious facade fell away and she resorted to peppering him with kisses. 

“Break my heart, why don’t you...” 

“No need to start crying on me or anything.”

\--------------

By the time they re-emerged into the market it was decidedly quieter, with most of its inhabitants having gone to the Chantry for the service. The sound of the Chant quietly droning away across the square from behind closed doors. 

“I think it’s time for me to go back, before anyone realises I’m gone. If they haven’t already.” It hurt his heart to say it. 

She tucked one of the sweetpeas behind his ear and took him by the hand. “Come on. I’ll walk you back.”

Their steps were slow as they made their way across the square, drawing out the last moments as much as possible, unsure when they would see each other again. Avoiding the front entry to the Chantry and Templar barracks, they wound their way down one of the side streets until they reached the solid wooden gate that marked the entrance to the kitchen garden. 

“You know…” Alistair looked at her, his voice hesitant. “I didn’t think you were coming back…”

Izzy reached out, her hand gently cupping his cheek, thumb stroking the line of his jaw. Her eyes soft and sad as he leant into her touch. 

“I’ll always come back for you.”

With a final bittersweet kiss, he departed through the gate, unable to look at her directly for fear of never being able to leave. He allowed his hand to linger on the wood of the closed gate a moment before heading back to his harsh reality. On the other side of the gate, Ysabelle stood a moment longer, hand pressed to the knotted wood before turning and walking away.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading!
> 
> This one got away from me a little but I'm really enjoying this au. There will be more!
> 
> If you missed the first instalment it was 'A Stolen Moment'


End file.
